


What it means to be content

by sirona



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, Flying, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-09
Updated: 2011-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-15 13:26:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Draco muses on flying and how it's changed for him over the years. A birthday present drabble; prompt was "flying together on one broom at night".</p><p> </p><p>Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JKR.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What it means to be content

Draco has always loved flying, ever since he can first remember the swoosh of air in his ears and on his face, the delight of the ground spinning away beneath him, being cradled in his father’s strong, unyielding arms, held safely against his big, warm body.

Later on, Draco would associate flying with exhilaration, adrenaline pumping as his fingers close around the practice snitch in preparation for the real thing waiting, only months away from starting at Hogwarts for the first time.

Later still, for Draco, flying would mean a vicious rivalry, straining through the previously friendly air that now restricted the speed of his twists and turns, the desperation of reaching for the snitch only to find the cold skin of another hand clutched around it.

For a couple of years after that, flying would only hold pleasure for Draco when he is looping and rising alone, late at night, with only the light of the silver moon to see his proficiency, and no messy-haired idiot to steal away his glory.

Draco still remembers the first time when flying had become that unimaginable mixture of elation and arousal, when in their fifth year he had started noticing the way the tight Quidditch pants clung to said messy-haired moron’s delectable arse and thighs. That had been… interesting; it had been no wonder that he had lost that match as well, he had been so distracted, but that night… Well, let’s just say that the day’s game had brought about more than one revelation.

The next time that Draco had flown would be etched into his mind for the rest of his life, the hungry licks of the roaring monsters around him, feeling the smoke rush into his lungs, feeling his skin start to blister, feeling the utter despair of imminent death; and then – out of the flames, a hand stretched to him, beckoning him forward frantically. He had taken it gratefully, had swung himself up on that broom and had sobbed his horror away into the tautly muscled, too-scrawny back even as he had clutched at his rescuer’s shirt for dear life.

It had taken a long time for him to get back on a broom willingly, a lot of pushing and prodding and unquestioning support throughout the snarling and insults that had been his natural reaction to the remembered panic of that night not long ago enough. At first it had only lasted a few minutes before he had jumped off and _not_ run, but stalked swiftly away none-the-less.

Then it had been half an hour. Then it had been longer. Some time later, clutching at the smooth handle of his Firebolt, Draco had laughed with excitement for the first time in years. The answering laughter of his companion had been the best sound he had ever heard.

Now, as Draco is held against a strong, firm, warm chest high in the air, he feels quite different from when he had been three years of age. The feeling of safety has not changed, however. As he relaxes his whole body against the one at his back, he feels contentment the likes of which he has only known for the short time since he has lived in the house rushing past below them, the green fields bathed in moonlight stretching all around. For all the wealth and power in the world, he would not wish to be anywhere else.

A nose is pressed in the crook of his neck, just below his ear. “You okay?” a deep voice murmurs in his ear and he nods languidly, tightening his hold around the arms stretched in front of him, holding on to the broom handle between his thighs. His cock twitches from the position of the large hands, but he is far too relaxed to pay it any heed.

He feels the smile that is pressed into the sensitive skin of his neck, along with a slow string of open-mouthed kisses. He leans his head back onto the broad shoulder behind it, basking in the gorgeous night, the fragrant air, the feel of the most important person in his life pressed so close against him, holding him possessively and protectively at the same time. He is slowly learning to recognise the warm, effervescent feeling rising in his chest more and more often these days. It’s all that prat’s fault.

He reaches backwards to caress the nape of his partner’s neck, fingers twining through the long strands there. “You need a haircut, Harry,” he tells him softly, and smiles at the hum of agreement in his ear. For the first time in over a decade, he loves his life again.


End file.
